


High on Hope

by evilstoryteller



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcoholics Anonymous, Angst, Drama & Romance, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, M/M, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, Smut, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-24
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-05-13 09:30:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14746262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilstoryteller/pseuds/evilstoryteller
Summary: Willing to move his life around, Keith goes to an AA meeting, but he's still too proud and stubborn to accept any help. However, change takes time and patience, and as someone who once was in Keith's shoes, Lance is willing to show him that it's worth it.





	1. Meet cute

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks again, @littlemaple, for writing the summary for me. You are as great a writer as you are a friend ♥  
> Anyway, who else is excited for the new Florence+The Machine album?

“So who is the hot mess in the leather jacket?” Lance was by the table, with one hand in his pocket and the other holding a paper cup of warm, black coffee.

“I don’t know his name yet.” Anitta was about fifty, always wore something red, and was the nicest person Lance knew. Today she was in a blue shirt with tiny red swallows flying all around. “He’s still shy, haven’t said a word since his first day,” the woman explained.

“Hey, great shirt.” Lance remarked. She thanked him. “So this isn’t his first day?”

“No, he has been attending our meetings since monday. You only come on fridays, I guess you couldn’t know. By the way, Lance, you should really come more often. You’ve been slacking.”

“Hey, it’s not slacking, I’m trying to get my life together, it takes time. Time I can’t spend on meetings… Anyway, so he’s been coming here since monday? Has anyone spoken to him already? He seems… Lonely.”

“Well, I offered him coffee and cookies everyday, but he refused. Other than that, I’m not sure. I guess not. I’ll go try that one last time...” She said, picking up a plate of cookies from the table.

“Wait, wait, wait. Let me…”

“You?”

“Yeah, is that a problem?”

“Hm…” She took a good, long look at the stranger again. “When you called him a _‘hot_ mess’ you didn’t mean…?”

“Anitta, please… I just thought that if he hasn’t responded to you the whole week, someone else should approach him, you know?”

“Hm, sure. And that someone should be you, of course.”

“Well, when it comes to me, AA means _alluring_ and _attractive_.”

“Oh dear Lord, that’s terrible. I feel sorry for him already.” She smiled and handed Lance the plate of cookies.

Lance sat down his empty cup, took the plate, poured a fresh cup of coffee and winked Anitta goodbye.

“Hey man, how you doing?” He started the conversation as soon as he got close enough. The stranger just barely moved his eyes towards him as a response. “Thought you might like some coffee and cookies. What’s your name?”

“No, thanks.”

“Oh, okay, here, _Nothanks_ , it’s chocolate chip. Anitta bakes them on fridays, so it’s the safest day to eat them. The coffee is shit, but that’s everyday, so what can you do…”

“I meant I’m not hungry.”

“Aaaaah… Damn, so I gotta assume you’re not called _Nothanks_ … is that right?”

“The name is Keith.”

“Keith. Nice to meet you, Keith, I’m Lance. So, I’m guessing what brings you here is not the food, then. What’s up with you?”

“Are you always this chatty?”

“Only when I’m awkwardly holding a plate of cookies and a cup of coffee for no reason.”

“Ok, fine,” he said, taking the coffee from Lance’s hands and a cookie from the plate. He didn’t eat or drink anything at first.

Lance stayed there, sitting by his side, holding the plate in silence. Keith took a bite of the cookie and a sip of the coffee. Soon after the meeting started.

“Hi everyone.” Everyone greeted her back as Anitta began, “I’m Anitta, and I’m an alcoholic…”

The small crowd heard in silence as Anitta spoke and the meeting unfolded. Lance made no further contact with Keith. When the newcomer reached the plate on his hand for the second cookie, he figured he had done his job well enough, and when the plate was finally emptied — which was about half a dozen cookies later, — he raised his hand to take the floor.

“Hi guys” a few voices said _hi_ back, “Lance here. Alcoholic. I’ve been sober one year, three months and” he checked his watch for the date and added “eleven days.” People clapped and Lance waited for it to end with a smile on his face. “Amazing, when I checked yesterday it was just one year, three months and _ten_ days. Time does fly by” everyone laughed, and he went on: “Yeah, it has been a long, long while, but you know, it got a lot better along the way. I’ve got a job, my parents are speaking to me again – which is not necessarily a good thing, but you know” another round of laughs encouraged him, “it’s been good, it’s been good. I’m thinking about getting back to college at some point, even. Don’t know when yet, but soon. Anyway, I’m glad I can even think about these things again, you know? Less than two years ago my biggest dream was, what? a beer bottle that could magically replenish itself? Now I’m thinking about college again. It’s amazing. It’s all thanks to this, to the meetings, to you, to the cookies” he made finger guns at Anitta and winked. She smiled proudly. “Yeah. This is it. Thanks, guys, thanks a lot.”

The meeting kept going for another hour and at the end Anitta stood up and made a few announcements about whose turn was to bring food or coffee, something about the parking lot. Lance didn’t listen. He was waiting for her to finish it so he could talk to Keith, the guy was trembling too much for someone wearing a leather jacket in early July.

“Man, are you—”

“I’m fine.”

Keith had his elbows planted on his knees, with both his hands clasping the sides of his head, looking blankly at the floor. He sounded weak.

“No, you’re not.” Lance put one of his hands over Keith’s shoulder and the other on his chest.

“What the hell—”

“Get up, come with me.” Keith didn’t oblige, but he also didn’t really fight back. Lance pulled him up and guided him through the aligned chairs across the meeting room towards the door on the right corner with an _M_ on it.

“Is he alright?” Anitta asked as they passed by her. Lance shook his head in silence.

“Where are you… taking me…” Keith asked. His voice was faint. Lance could feel his heartbeat accelerating.

“Where you need to be. Not far, here,” he opened the door and helped Keith in. Lance groped for the light switch and as soon as Keith realized where they were, he rushed to the toilet where he spilled back all the cookies. Lance closed the door. “It’s alright man, it’s gonna be alright.”

Keith had his mouth too busy to say anything, so Lance just stayed beside him and held his hair back. Lance opened his mouth to make a mullet joke, but he thought it would be inappropriate and closed it. _I’ll save it for later_.

Cold sweat damped Keith’s nape. Half a dozen cookies and coffee after, it seemed Keith was done. He flushed the toilet and tried to get up, still shaking. Lance helped him to the sink, where he washed his mouth and face.

“How… How do... you... know?” Keith’s breathing was heavy between each word.

“How do I know what?”

“That… That it will… get… better…”

“Ah… That. Well, I just know it. It got better for me.”

“I’m not… but I’m not you…”

“Yeah, well, less than two years ago I wasn’t me either. But you don’t have to worry about that right now, you just have to get through today first. There’s people to help you here, if you want…”

They spent a few seconds in silence. Keith had his hands tightly grasping the sink, his face looking down, sweat dripping from the tip of his nose.

“Thanks…”

“No problem, man.”

“Lance, everything alright?” Anitta’s voice came from outside.

“All cool, Nitta, don’t worry. If you wanna go home, I can close everything up.”

“Alright honey. I’ll take out the trash and leave the keys over the table. You boys take care.”

“See ya,” he told her, then looked back at Keith. He had stood up and he was staring at his own reflection in the mirror: pale skin, deep and dark circles below his eyes, a cracked lip, and his jet black hair sticking to his forehead. “Here” Lance said, offering him a towel. Keith took it and covered his face with it. “Do you have a place to stay?”

“Yeah…” he answered with his face still buried in the towel.

“Oh, cool. Where is it?”

It took a little while for him to answer.

“On the 25th.”

“Isn’t that really far away?”

“Yeah.” Keith lowered the towel. He was still very pale and looked terrible, but better than he was five minutes ago.

“I see… So, how are you feeling?”

“Like shit.”

Lance let out a little laugh. Of course he was, why did he even ask?

“But I’m a lot less shittier than before.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t you have to close up the place?”

“Ah, yeah, but take your time. I live nearby, it’s no problem.”

“I’m done here.”

“Cool.”

They left the bathroom and Lance got around to check if the windows were shut and then he began folding back the chairs to stack them up in a corner. Keith helped him with shaky hands. The keys were on top of the table, like Anitta said, so after everything was done, Lance turned off the lights and they left the room. He locked it and they left the building. At the sidewalk, Lance said:

“If you need a place to crash, I have a nice fold out couch that I reserve only for the best guests.”

“No. But thanks. I wanna go home.”

“Alright. I’ll give you a ride, then.”

“My ride is over there,” he said, nodding towards a black motorcycle.

“Oh. Cool… But, are you alright to drive that?”

“Sure.”

“Sure.” Lance frowned. “Okay, cool. Good night, then.”

“Good night.”

“See you again?”

“Yeah, sure…”

They walked in opposite directions, but when Lance heard the bike’s engine stir, he turned back. Before Keith could leave, he yelled:

“Hey, hold on!” He jogged towards him, Keith stared with a helmet suspended mid air in front of him. “Do you have a phone?”

“Like a number?”

“No, like a device. Do you have one with you?”

“No, I don’t.”

“How do—” Lance began, but he fought the urge to judge and tried to reach for something on his pocket. He pulled out a drugstore receipt. “Do you have a pen, then?”

“A pen?”

“Yeah, I need to write something.”

“No, I do not…”

“Damn. How many hoops do I need to jump here…” Lance muttered.

“What?”

“Nevermind. Okay, what can I do… Oh, yeah…” Lance pulled out his keys from his pocket and started to scratch his phone number on the drugstore receipt. “Here. Can you read this at all?”

Keith squinted at it. “I guess… Sure…”

“Okay, good. Gimme a call if you need anything, alright? And by anything I mean _anything,_ okay? From pet emergencies, to inviting me for coffee.” Lance said walking back without turning away from Keith.

“I don’t have a pet.”

“Then I guess you’ll have to invite me for coffee,” Lance winked and turned away to get to  his car.

 


	2. Special delivery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith has a hard day.

Keith trashed over the mattress on the floor of his studio apartment the entire night. He got up, walked the five or six paces his bedroom-living room allowed him, stopped, and held his face. His hands were cold.

“C’mon,” he said to himself, and felt something warm stream down his nose. He touched and saw it was blood, but as he went to clean it, something caught his attention.

On the small table he had beside his clothing rack was a tiny square of paper and a bike helmet. He picked the paper up. In the dark he couldn’t make out very well what was written in it, but when his bloodied fingers smeared it, numbers appeared. His hands were shaking, so he returned the paper to the table not to tear it.

“It’s gonna be okay, it’s alright,” he muttered, still moving. When he stopped he found himself facing the mirror on top of his bathroom sink. He cleaned his face and hands. “Al—alright, gonna be…” Before he could finish he felt his chest heaving and air came out of his mouth. There was nothing to throw up. He turned on the water and let it flow over his shaky hands, but as he did his body protested, forcing air and bile and blood out of him. Keith felt his muscles contract, tense and release from the need to spill out whatever hell was going on inside him, but there was nothing. At least nothing physical enough, so he cupped his hands and drank some water. He waited a while to see if anything happened. When nothing did, he drank some more, then more, then more. Keith breathed in and out slowly, painfully.

He moved his face up to look in the mirror. His pale cheeks were sucked in, and the crack on his lip had opened. He was bleeding again. Keith approached a shaking finger to his lip, but he couldn’t even feel his own touch. Had he not been staring at himself in front of the mirror, he would have no evidence of it.

“I’m not gonna…” He began with eyes closed, “I’m gonna d—” but before he could finish he was forced to bend over by his own muscles. Yellow water spilled from his mouth and nostrils. When it was done the pain on his back and sides was so intense, he pressed himself against the wall and eased himself down. Keith fell asleep there.

He woke up with a beam of sunlight burning his eyes and a knock on his door. There was a yellow stain on his shirt, by the collar, and it smelled foul. He didn’t care. Keith fought the pain that overwhelmed him and got up, hoisting himself using the sink, then the doorknob, then the threshold. His door was only three steps away from his bathroom, but it took him almost ten minutes to get to it, holding on to everything he could and stopping to breathe. He finally got to the doorknob, but had to wait for his shaky hand to steady before he could turn it. When he opened the door, no one was there. He looked down.

Keith sighed. There was a piece of paper with a dry, muddy footstep mark on it and a white bag wrapped around something. Costly, he got down, took both of them, closed the door and leaned against it, sliding down until he was on the floor again.

The piece of paper was dirty and somewhat tattered, he turned over and read the words:  _ die junkie faggot. _ He tossed it away and opened the bag slowly. Inside it, Keith found one syringe already loaded with a clear substance and a receipt. The receipt was for the syringe. He stared at it for a while, breathing heavily. His eyes were watering as he did, and his mouth felt as dry as ever. 

“It’s gonna get better,” he said out loud, trying not to hear his own heart beating desperately. “I’m almost there… Almost,” he continued. He put himself up again and went to the sink perched on the corner that passed for his kitchen, filled a glass of water and drank it all at once, then repeated it. Carefully, then, he placed the syringe and the receipt over his table.

Keith held on to his clothing rack and took his shirt off, picked something cleaner, dressed, and took his leather jacket and helmet. After that he left his apartment.

“Oh, hello, dear,” a familiar voice came from behind him, as Keith shuffled to lock his own door.

He turned to face his neighbor.

“Hello.”

“Are you hungry? I have a lot of leftover meatloaf, if you want,” she said, smiling.

“I’m fine, Mrs. Jackson. I’m going out to eat, you already do enough for me…”

“Well, it’s no trouble at all,” the woman replied. She was old, around sixty, and had a thundering voice that Keith never heard directed at him. With him she wasn’t less than soft. “Is your medicine working alright, dear?”

Keith stopped before he answered. “Yeah, just fine.”

“Oh, good. I’ve been praying for you.”

“Thank you… I gotta go,” he said by way of goodbye. The kind woman smiled at him and he went down the hallway towards the stairs. 

Keith didn’t get to walk two flights of stairs before he had to stop.

“You. Kogane. Rent, today, no excuses,” the hulking man demanded. He was two heads taller than Keith, and several  _ Keiths  _ larger. “You spend one more day on the red with me, and you’re done. You hear me? I don’t need you here if you’re not paying.”

“I’m out to get the money now,” Keith told his landlord.

“You better. Or I’m gonna kick you out and get that motorcycle of yours. For what you owe me,” the man threatened. Keith bothered to look at his face only now. The bald man stared at him with dark, malicious eyes. Keith clenched his fists.

“You won’t,” he began, the fury inside him hinted on his voice, but he tried to control himself. “You’ll have the money today,” was all he said. Then Keith moved around his landlord to be on his way, one flight of stairs behind him, he heard the man mock out loud:

“Don’t know how a lazy-ass junkie like you haven’t sold that yet…”

Keith ignored it and walked. He wanted to run, but he didn’t have the guts to. Literally. If he made that much effort, he imagined he might end up bent on the floor once again. And he couldn’t afford that right now.

When Keith was outside the building, we went for the deli across the street. The small, old place was owned by a small, old man. Keith moved one filthy chair with his foot out of his way and got to the counter.

“A sandwich,” he asked.

“Same as always?” The girl behind the counter was small, but could not be more than eighteen for all he knew. She smiled. Keith nodded. 

But before the girl could begin to make anything, an angry voice came yelling:

“Don’t make him anything, Danna, not until he pays what he owes us!” When the tiny old man finally appeared, he stared at Keith. “I knew it was you. I recognized your voice and… Don’t you say  _ please _ ? Who do you think my daughter is? Your mother? You listen to me here, boy, I took pity on you and all, but that’s gone. You owe me more than a hundred bucks worth of sandwiches and sodas, and you keep walking in here like you own the place and asks for  _ more _ . That ends today. You pay me now! I’m trying to put Danna in a good school next year, and that takes money, you hear me? Money.”

“I’ll get you the money today,” Keith told him. The old man squinted at him.

“Will you, eh?” Keith only stared as a response. “Then I’ll tell you what, you go on, get this money, bring it here, then you’ll eat. Until then, beat it.” The old man kicked him out with a piercing glare. 

Keith smashed the counter with his fist and gritting his teeth. The effort had made him dizzy, which made him stay longer than he wanted to. 

He crossed the street back to the garage of his building with a growl in his stomach and a blinding pain in his head. With some haste he got to his bike, put on the helmet and started it. 

“I’ll eat after, then,” he mumbled, then left. Traffic was a bitch, and as Keith waited for a line of cars to move, he saw that his tank needed attention. It was close to empty. “Fuck.” Another job for  _ after _ . Twenty minutes later he found what he was looking for.

The ATM was on a McDonald’s parking lot. He parked beside it, where there was a sign saying  _ no parking _ . Keith looked around and saw that there was no one near, so he got down and took a card from inside his right boot. He inserted it, dialed, waited, when the screen asked how much he wanted to take out, he dialed a number. His fingers were trembling as he leaned against the machine, waiting, waiting, waiting.  _ Transaction denied. _

“What?” His heart jumped to his mouth. Trembling more than ever he began the process again, trying to be calmer, he must have misclicked something.  _ Transaction denied _ , he read again. “No, no, no, no, this doesn’t make any sense…” He started all over, this time not to take any money, but just to check his balance. “Can’t be, can’t be…” He muttered. The pain in his head seemed to make him heavier, breathing was hard. The screen showed his balance:  _ zero dollars and sixty eight cents. _ “No… Fuck…” He punched the machine once, twice, by the third time it wasn’t a punch, just a resigned blow, almost as if he was asking for mercy. “Fuck!” He cried out, louder, and turned to his bike, hands on his head, then back at the ATM with the screen still showing his balance asking if he wanted to print it. No matter how much he turned back and forth, it didn’t change, so he kicked it, and kicked again, and again, and again. Until he heard a voice:

“Hey, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Keith looked and saw that a guard was coming. He put his helmet, jumped on and started the bike to leave before the man got too close.

There was nowhere to go, and no gas to go anywhere, but he drove nevertheless. His head was being hammered nonstop as his stomach growled wildly. The wind was sending chills all over his body. Keith could feel the cold sweat drops cascading down his back, sticking to his shirt, but he didn’t care, so he closed his eyes. And then he was home. He had driven back to his apartment. He was in front of his building blinking, looking around, trying to figure why was everything so familiar when he should be nowhere or anywhere.

Keith decided he knew why. He got down from the bike, took off his helmet and ran upstairs, as fast as he could without fainting or throwing up, hoping against hope that he wouldn't run into his landlord. There was still something he needed to do, something he left home, his last hope of  _ something _ . He couldn’t just forget it. He could picture it as he made the steps, as he took out his keys and shuffled them to open the door, and when he got in it was the first thing he saw, sitting where he left it, on top of the small table beside his clothing rack. Keith shut the door and picked it up.

“One closer to the last,” he said to himself, then removed the lid from the needle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I hurt them so I can heal them", something I do only as a writer.


	3. Garbage duty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance takes out the trash.

Lance had to close the car door with a butt bump because his hands were full. 

On the left hand he had a cardboard cup holder with three starbucks cups, and on the right he carried a tupperware. His car keys were on his mouth, and when he closed the door, he bit the button to set the alarm on. The car beeped and Lance walked to the building.

“Well, well, do my eyes deceive me, or is that Lance? Here, on a Monday!” Anitta greeted as he came in. She was wearing a white, silk shirt, black pants, and a red bracelet.

Lance set his stuff on the table and put his keys in his pocket before he could answer:

“Yes, yes, congratulations, it’s me,” he said, closing his eyes and doing a mock bow, then giving Anitta a hug. “I strive to reach your levels of elegance, you look fabulous as always.”

“Aw, thank you, honey,” she said, hugging him back. “You don’t look too shabby either. Blue jeans, white shirt…”

“ _ Walked into the room, you know you made my eyes hurt _ ,” Lance singed.

“Is that a song?”

“Yeah,” he laughed.

“You’re in a good mood, aren’t you?”

“Work’s been good.”

“Oh, yeah, I bet it is. Did they give you all this coffee?”

“Oh no, I bought those. This one's for you, here, nonfat latte, no sugar,” Lance took one cup out of the holder and handed it to Anitta. She took it and smiled.

“So this means there’s three on purpose… Might I ask who else will benefit from your generosity today?”

“Well, you might ask...” Lance began, but he lost track of what he was going to say as he gave a look around the room. Not even half the chairs were full yet, people were still coming in, but it made him a little anxious that he didn’t find who he was looking for.

“The meeting will start only in half an hour, he will be here by then,” Anitta said.

“Do you think so?”

“Aaah, so it is him you’re looking for… What was his name, again?”

“Keith.”

“Lance, what’s going on? Do you have feelings for this guy? Already?” Anitta shot. Lance turned to her in a flash.

“No! Of course not. But I’m worried… You said he came everyday last week, Monday through Friday, right?”

“Right.”

“What about the weekend?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Yeah. He was in a pretty bad shape, he clearly needed help, you know?”

“I know, honey. But you did the best you could. You told me and I saw it,” she said in a reassuring voice. “Why do you think he got to you so much?”

Lance only blinked and stared blankly at the woman for a bit. If it was anyone else asking that question, he thought, he was certain he would avoid answering it. 

“I—It was something about that image...” He began, trying to break the silence, still not sure of what to say. “The image of him alone, sitting by himself, no one even near him. It was like he had walls around him, you know?” Anitta nodded and Lance tried to elaborate it further: “I think… I think he reminded me of myself a little. My first day here. Remember?” Anitta nodded, smiling warmly. “I was leaning by the door, still pretending I didn’t belong here, that I didn’t need any help… And you came in… And the smell of cookies came in with you, and you said ‘Come on in, they’re still warm...’” Lance felt his eyes were beginning to water. He shifted around to dry them so Anitta wouldn’t see it, then turned back to her and added: “That made me step in, you know?” 

“I see… And you just wanted to help him  _ step in _ , too.”

“Yeah, I guess that’s it,” Lance sighed.

“Honey, do you think you’re ready to sponsor someone?” Anitta asked.

“By  _ sponsor _ you mean… Like you are to me?”

“Yes. You just expressed the willingness to help someone else, that’s the most important part. I think it’s a sign of how well you’re doing, and if you want to, it can be something that will help you even further. Think about it.”

“Yeah… Absolutely…” He thought out loud.

“You just have to be sure you don’t have any romantic interest in the person you’re helping, cause that’s a great recipe for disaster.”

“Sure, of co—Hey!” Lance shot a glare at Anitta while she laughed.

“I’m not saying that you do,” she began apologetically, “but, should that happen, you have to be responsible about it.”

“Yeah, you’re right. But it’s not like that’ll happen, you know, he’s not even here. Maybe he won’t even come anymore,” he said, giving another look around. No sign of Keith.

“Have faith, honey. There’s still time.”

“Yeah, I know that,” he said, then opened the tupperware he brought to set the plates of cookies. “I just hope that he knows it, too…” Lance added in a whisper to himself.

As he put the cookies around, he noticed some of them were a little damp and crumbling. Anitta seemed to have taken notice too.

“You baked cookies, then?”

“Yeah…” He confessed, somewhat shyly. “How did you figure?”

“I asked and you told me, that’s how,” she smiled and started helping him. “Lance, honey, when you bake anything you gotta let it set for a while first. If you box them right away, the steam will condensate and wet everything,” she explained. “They smell fantastic, though.”

“Thanks. And I didn’t know about that. Note taken.”

Anitta smiled and after they finished setting up the table she gave Lance a long, warm hug for which he couldn’t exactly guess the reason. He appreciated it, though. Shortly after, the meeting began, this time without Keith. Lance decided he wouldn’t expect him to come anymore, and as a sign of his resolution, every time a shadow passed by the door, he expected it to open and reveal a scrawny figure in tattered black leather. 

Lance didn’t get up to talk that night. He stayed on his chair, with his cup of coffee getting colder in his hand. He forgot to drink it. He also forgot to watch or listen, everything was muffled and distant, because his mind kept playing tricks on him.  _ I should’ve insisted to drive him home _ , was a recurrent thought,  _ he was clearly not fine to drive himself. _ Lance was trying not to think of the worst, but it was hard.  _ If I see him again, I’ll insist. That’s it. He won’t have a choice. I won’t take no for an answer. Lance, that’s a little rapey. No, I mean, it is, but no! This is different, he can’t really make decisions for himself if he’s still hooked up on… Whatever it is. It’s my responsibility, I think. Is it? I don’t know for sure. I’d have to ask Anitta. She would know. She always knows this sort of stuff. _

“Lance?”

“Nitta!”

“Are you alright, honey?”

“Sure. Why?”

“You’ve been spacing out a little.”

“Ah… Have I?” He gave a look around. The meeting was over and he was alone with Anitta. “Oh…”

“Look, your cookies were a success,” she said as she cleaned up the table, “you’ll be bringing back just crumbles…”

“Lemme help you with that…”

“Don’t worry, I got it. I’m almost done.”

“You always do everything, I’ll fold the chairs, then,” he said, standing up.

“You do that, I’ll take out the trash,” she said when she was done with the table.

“Oh, no, I’ll do  _ that _ then,” Lance decided, jumping ahead of her to grab the bags.

“If you insist,” she smiled.

“Nitta,” he began, stopping by the door. She looked at him. “Do you think… Do you think it’s our responsibility to help someone… You know, if they need... And we have the power to do so?”

“I don’t have a short answer for that question, but I’ll make an extra effort since you’re holding heavy trash bags… I think that, when we’re on a good place with ourselves, we can choose which responsibilities we’ll take, whatever they are,” she told him in a pensive tone. Lance shifted in place as he stared blankly at the woman for a while, thinking about what she had said. “Lance?”

“Me!”

“The trash, honey.”

“Oh, yeah. Be right back.”

Lance hauled the bags outside to make the trip around the building. He gave a look at the parking lot, but there were no motorcycles parked anywhere he could see, so he got back to his chore. The dumpsters were just behind the place, on a filthy alleyway.

The light was dim and the smell was strong. The big dumpster was full to the brim, and Lance didn’t wanna toss the trash on the ground where something could tear it and make a mess, so he scanned the other dumpsters nearby. The one across the street seemed good for it, he thought, since it’s lid was closed and there was a lot of trash lying around outside of it, so he went for it. When he got to it, though, he had to move a few bags with his foot to reach the thing, but as he did, a bag  _ moaned. _

“What the—” he said, tossing the trash inside and moving the ones by his feet. “Holy fuck! Keith?” As fast as he could, Lance moved the trash around until he could see him. Keith had his clothes soiled in every possible way, and his skin had a scary yellow tone to it. “Don’t worry, man, it’s gonna be alright, I’m gonna help you,” Lance told him, “it’s my responsibility.” 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think 'Blue Jeans' is one of my favorite songs. And looks.


	4. Ride back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith gets a ride back home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's getting progressively harder to write this. I don't know why.

Keith opened his eyes and saw the bright white ceiling. Staying with his eyes opened was too demanding, so he closed them. When he opened them again, the ceiling was dark and the lights were more yellow than white, softer, gentler, and he felt he could stand them now.

“Where the hell am I?” He blurted out, trying to get up. He was lying on his side, wrapped in sheets and blankets, and couldn’t move at all.

“Hey, look who woke up,” a unfamiliar voice came from somewhere behind him. Keith still struggled to get up. “Honey, you can’t get up yet, you’re still too weak. Try to calm down and I’ll explain everything to you…” The voice belonged to a woman. Her face hovered around him until she stopped and sat down somewhere. She was middle-aged, short grey hair, brown eyes, and had a red lipstick smile.

“Who are you? Where am I?” He demanded, still trying to get up.

“Okay, I see there’s no point in keeping you down,” she said, putting down a mug she had on her hands, then approaching him. Keith wanted to avoid her touch, but she never touched him, instead the woman pulled the sheets and blankets from the right places and set him free. Keith didn’t move at first. “My name is Anitta, you’re at a friend’s house, recovering from an overdose.”

“I don’t have any friends. I gotta leave.”

“Oh, honey, I mean _my_ friend’s house,” she told him, smiling and picking her mug back up. “Did you hear what I said at all? You are recovering from an overdose.”

“Stop saying that,” Keith said between teeth while he tried to get out of bed, but he could barely sit up. Every time he tried to lean on his arms or even his legs, they would tremble uncontrollably and bring him back down.

“That’s what happened. You overdosed and was found by my friend, lying under the trash,” she explained.

“You’re lying.”

“I’m sorry, honey, I know it’s hard. But it’s easier if you face it right away, you’ll get to recover sooner.”

“No, you’re lying! That’s impossible!” He yelled. “It’s impossible,” he repeated, trying to stand up another time, but failing.

“Honey, you have to calm down. Everything is gonna be fine, Lance is gonna be back in a minute, then you can talk to someone else about all this, if you want.”

“What? No! Who the hell is Lance? I can’t stay here, I’m in the middle of something, I cannot stop now, I can’t. Let me go!”

“As you can see, I’m not holding you here. But I would strongly advise you to stay, you just woke up. Things are far from getting better just now, you need to rest, to think, and, most of all, to recover… You still have a few tough weeks ahead of you...”

“I don’t have time for all that crap… I need… To leave…” He said, trying to get up for the thousandth time. When he couldn’t, he glared at the old woman and said: “How long?” She didn’t answer him right away, so he insisted: “How long have I been out, how long have I been here? Tell me!”

The woman sighed before she answered, “You were found this last Monday, you had an overdose, it wasn’t that apparently, but we took you to the hospital. Since there was no one we could call, when they were done Lance brought you back to his apartment. It’s Wednesday,” she added in a rush. “Do your parents know about you? You’ve been out for three days or so—”

“My parents don’t even know I’m alive. I have to leave now,” he said, now done with it. He didn’t care his arms or legs couldn’t support him, he was going to stand up and go back to his own place, where he had his stuff. He couldn’t just stop now. He was so close to the end, just a few more weeks… “Get out of my way,” he said, and the woman obliged. Keith forced himself up and as soon as he switched from horizontal to vertical, something in his head snapped, shooting down needles of pain inside him. A second later he was kissing the floor.

Right after that, a door opened.

“Hey, Nitta, how is he?” A second voice spoke.

“Come here, see for yourself,” the woman said. Keith heard steps getting closer as he tried to bring himself up.

“Holy crap! Why is he on the floor like that? Man, are you okay? Why didn’t you help him?”

“I am helping him. He wants to leave.”

Keith felt his arms being pulled up and shortly he was being hoisted back to what it seemed to be a fold out couch. Now, besides the headache, he could feel all the muscles on his body hurt.

“Are you okay?” The guy asked, fluffing a pillow.

Keith gritted his teeth to answer, “I need to leave. I have to go back to my apartment.”

“Oh, okay, sure, you need your stuff. I’ll go get it for you. Tell me where it is and what you want.”

Keith looked at his face. It was familiar. The brown hair, the dark blue eyes, even the cheery sound of his voice, but he wasn’t really sure from where. “I’m going,” was all Keith said.

“Alright…”

“Are you sure about that, Lance?” The woman asked.

“Yeah. Nitta, don’t worry, I’ve got it,” he told her. “Do you mind if we take my car? I’ll drive,” Lance said.

Keith didn’t know exactly where he had parked his bike, so he just mumbled a “Sure”. The guy called Lance helped him up without him asking and they left the building and got in the car. Keith remained sullen and silent, just adjusting the course whenever he needed to with an eventual _turn here_. The silence was making the ride take forever, so Keith shot out:

“Why?”

“What? Did I miss a turn? Why what? What?” Lance asked, looking around, confused.

“No. Why are you doing this?”

“You asked me to take you home,” he answered, eyes on the road.

“No, I didn’t. And that’s not what I mean,” Keith sighed. “Why are you helping me?”

“Cause I want to,” Lance answered.

“Sure.”

“What? Do you think I have some ulterior motive?” Lance laughed. “ _Ulterior_. Look at me, saying fancy words.”

“Why would you help me, then?”

“Because you need help. Nobody gets sober alone, that’s like, _AA 101_ ,” Lance told him. A few seconds of silence passed before Lance added, “And you clearly want help.”

“I _what?_ ” Keith snapped.

“You want help. Don’t you?”

“Where did you get that from?”

“Well… From the subtle clues, like… You came to AA meetings a whole week, then when you relapsed, while clearly tripping, you ended up on the middle of the trash on an alley behind said AA meeting…” Keith saw Lance’s eyes turn to him for a second, then he added in a whisper: “Subtle clues...”

“I didn’t relapse, I’m just fine,” Keith told him. “And I don’t need your help. When we get there, drop me off and beat it. You don’t have to worry about me anymore. You shouldn’t even have started.”

“Alright, okay. But I’m gonna need those PJs back, cause I can’t afford to lose my Power Rangers t-shirt.”

“What?” Keith was confused. He looked down and saw he was wearing a yellow t-shirt, with the five original Power Rangers printed on it. The pants were grey, and he was barefoot. “Ugh.”

“You can keep the underwear.”

“I’m wearing _your_ underwear?”

“Hey, I’m not crazy about it either, but your clothes were cut off of you at the emergency, so I had no choice,” Lance said. “You could have died, you know that?”

“It’s here,” Keith announced when they reached the building.

“Do you need help getting—”

“I’m fine,” he said, opening the car door and slamming it shut. He still felt a little numb, but managed to walk.

As soon as Keith got into the building he realized his pants had no pockets, and therefore he didn’t have his keys. He sighed and walked towards the door on the main floor, the one behind the stairs. The last thing he wanted to do now was ask his landlord for a spare key, but he had no choice. He knocked and got in. Keith left the door open.

“Hey.”

The bald, giant man squinted at him from behind a desk, his lip twisted and his nose wrinkled, as if he smelled shit. He got up.

“ _Kogane_.”

“Mr. Adcock, I’m gonna need you to lend me a key for my apartment,” he said at once, then added, “please.”

“Oh, yeah? You’re gonna need a key for _your_ apartment? Then I’m gonna need you to fuck off!”

“What the—” Keith began, but thought this wasn’t the time for that. “I just need another key, I lost mine. I’ll replace it. I’ll change the lock, whatever.”

“You have some nerve... To enter this building and ask me anything... Do I look like a sucker?” The man literally spat. “Your junkie little brain must have forgotten, but you skipped on your rent. And for the last time! You’re out. You don’t get a key, because you don’t live here anymore!”

“What? I—” Keith’s headache came back with a blinding pain that made him close his eyes and grit his teeth.

“You’re out. Leave. If you make me go around this table, you’ll have more bruises to account for. _Out!_ ”

“Wait, no, what… What about my stuff? You can’t—” Keith, tried to say, still fighting the pain in his head.

“You have no stuff, Kogane. Whatever you left here is mine now until I see the money you owe me. Including that motorcycle of yours.”

Keith felt as if a hot knife had pierced his head from ear to ear, and with the pain a few memories came back. _Fuck._

“Fuck. No! You can’t do that!” Keith managed to yell back. No way he would let that douchebag keep his bike. Keith watched as Mr. Adcock made his way around his desk slowly. Keith kept staring at him in fury, and when the man got close to him he didn’t flinch. “I’ll pay you as soon as I can, just give me back my bike,” he managed to say.

“I’m sure you will,” the giant man said, pulling Keith by the collar with only one hand. A second after he was being thrown out of the office and crashed down on the floor like a garbage bag. “If you show up here again without my money, you’re not gonna be kissing the floor. It’s gonna be my fist. And it won’t be just once. Now fuck off!” The man got back inside and slammed the door.

“Fuck you!” Keith yelled and kicked the nearest wall. It was so pathetically weak it didn’t even make any noise and now his feet hurt. “Fuck you,” he said again. To add to the headache, Keith felt his eyes burn, and his mouth was dry. What was he gonna do now? _I was so close_ , he thought, _so close._ He lost everything, all his chances. He had nothing, only pain.

“I heard you yell,” a voice said. Keith turned to the door and saw Lance coming closer. “I should get used to seeing you on the floor, I guess…” he said, offering him a hand.

Keith stared at it for a while, as he felt something warm stream down his face. He had to get his motorcycle back, but he had nothing. No money, no job, no nothing. Even his clothes weren’t his. Except the underwear, apparently.

Keith swiped his face with his wrist, and took Lance’s hand. He had something, then.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to thank everyone who's been reading and commenting on this story, it kind of surprised me. I'm doing this for fun and to organize some thoughts and ideas, but I'm really glad there's people reading and enjoying it. Thanks everyone ♥ I'll get to replying to the comments as soon as I can.


	5. Babysitting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance stays home to take care of Keith.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to go easy on the heavy stuff for this one, cause I think I promised fluff somewhere, to someone. I liked the result, I think it's a good way to show where I plan to go with this story.

Lance woke up in the middle of the night to the sound of the toilet being flushed. He checked his phone on the bedside table, it was _five something am_. At first he thought Keith had gotten up to pee, and just turned back to sleep, but then he heard the water again, then again, so Lance got out of bed and went to check.

“Hey, how are you doing in there?” Lance said as he got closer. Keith didn’t answer. “Keith?” He tried again. No response. Lance knocked on the door and asked one last time, “Keith, what’s going on? Can I come in?” No answer. Lance opened the door.

Keith was hugging the toilet, kneeling on the floor with his back arched, throwing up violently. His breathing was heavy and his eyes were closed, but he managed to say, “Go… away…”

“Yeah, right.” Lance filled the glass by the sink with water and grabbed a towel. He leaned closer to Keith and dried the sweat on his forehead and offered him the glass. Keith took it, first with one shaky hand, then with both, and drank it slowly. Lance reached his hand to feel Keith’s forehead, but he tried to avoid him. “I just wanna check your temperature,” he explained. Keith tried to avoid him once more, but it was a lost battle. He was cold, Lance decided, too cold, so he got up, grabbed his old bathrobe and wrapped it around Keith. “Are you done with the water?” He asked, gently, and took the glass back when the other nodded.

Lance waited there, standing up beside him, in silence, with an empty glass in his hand, watching as Keith shook uncontrollably and heaved, fighting the urge to spill what he had just drank. There was not much he could do other than wait, watch, and hope he would get better soon. Was there?

Keith leaned in and threw up again. The sudden violence of it made the robe fall, so Lance got down to put it back, but when his hands fell over Keith’s shoulders, something cold and damp grabbed him and wouldn’t let go. Lance could only watch as Keith’s hand clasped his, struggling not to slip, perhaps afraid that it would go away. So instead of getting back up, Lance sat down and kept holding on to make sure the robe stayed over Keith’s shaking shoulders. For a moment the night was silent, the cars on the street stopped, the owls muted, no crickets cried, even Keith’s breathing eased. Lance got a little closer, just enough not to lose balance, and his chest was only an inch of touching Keith’s back. Just a little closer and they’d be kind of hugging, he thought. The silence still lingered, peaceful. Keith had stopped shaking. Lance enjoyed it for what it seemed to be a few minutes…

But then he realized he wasn’t hearing _anything_ , so he rushed his hand to Keith’s wrist, and after a few anxious seconds, he found a pulse. Lance sighed loudly.

“How are you feeling?” Lance asked. It had been a while since Keith had stopped throwing up. He didn’t answer, so Lance reached to feel his forehead again and in doing so, he found Keith fast asleep. He was pale and drenched in sweat, but despite all that, seemed better, his breathing was steadier. “Oh, okay… I guess I’m doing this…” Lance said to himself in a hush, carefully standing up to better balance himself before he leaned back down, passed his right hand under Keith’s knees, and the other behind his back. “How much can a skinny addict weight, anyway?” Then he lifted him. “Holy crap,” he said, this time louder than he planned to. He checked to see if he was still asleep. “Oh, good.” Then slowly carried him to the fold out couch in the living room. After he eased him down on a bed of messy sheets and pillows, he sighed. “I really gotta go back to the gym if I can’t lift a man with noodles for limbs…” Keith stayed awkwardly where Lance had put him, completely blacked out. “Poor guy, you’re drenched in sweat. I should’ve hosed you off before I took you back to bed…” Lance thought out loud. And then he pictured it. “But that’s not a door I’m opening today,” he said, then went for Keith’s legs, straightened them out and started pulling off his pants. “But I can’t let you sleep in those sweaty clothes, can I…” After that Lance took out his shirt, covered him with a blanket, and went to grab a fresh pair of pants and a tee on his bedroom. Then he got to dressing: arms up, shirt down, legs down, pants up. All the while, Keith stayed out, moving only when Lance handled him.

Lance tried to tidy up the bed a little, then put Keith sleeping on his side, with the pillows on his back, and a blanket covering him to his neck. After that, Lance stayed, seated by Keith’s feet. He looked at the clock on his wall, it marked _6:38am_.

_Oh well_ , he thought.

Lance sighed, stood up, gave Keith another look – he was still sleeping, – then went for his bedroom, took his phone from the charger on the bedside table, and texted: _Hey, Jennifer, I’m sorry, but I’ll be staying at home again, it’s an emergency. I’m sponsoring this new guy, you know how it is. I’ll ask Vieve to cover for me. I hope it’s alright. Thanks._ Then he searched for Genevieve on his message screen, and typed: _Hey girl, me again at 6 in the mornin’. I’ll need to take the day off. Could you cover for me, please?_ He sent, then felt like he owed her more than that, so he began typing, _I know I’ve been asking this a lot…_ But before he could finish, the girl answered him: _Morning Lance! Sure! Don’t worry. I’m happy to help and I could use the extra shift._ Lance smiled. _You’re the best, Vieve! I owe you another one._ The girl replied with a heart emoji. Lance smiled, put the phone away, and got up to make some coffee.

Keith woke up around ten am. Lance was reading a book and nursing his third cup of coffee by the kitchen isle, when he saw Keith trash around and slowly get up. He opened his mouth to wish him good morning, just to announce his own presence, but from his brief experience with the guy he decided it was best to just leave him be. _I’ll let him come to me,_ he thought _, like a cat._ It didn’t work.

Keith got up and zombie walked to the bathroom. Lance heard water running, the toilet flush – just the one time, thank God, – and then saw as he got back to bed.

“Oh, well…” Lance said, then got back to _Nobody Is Ever Missing._ He barely read a line before he was interrupted:

“Why didn’t you go to work?”

“Ah, who? Me?” Keith didn’t answer. “I wanted to finish this book. Why?”

“You should go to work, I’m fine.”

“I know you are. But the book,” Lance said, “it’s really good.”

“Sure. And last week when you missed work for three days, what was that?”

“Well, I have many books.”

“Stop shitting me,” Keith snapped. “You don’t have to babysit me, alright? I’m gonna go out today to look for a job, so I’ll be out of your hair as soon as possible.”

“Oh, but that’s why you need babysitting.”

“What?”

“You are in no shape to go out and look for jobs, much less hold on to one, that is if the _looking_ part doesn’t kill you. You have to rest, recover, and you need help. Which is why I’m here,” Lance explained. For the tenth time now, as he recalled.

“You—I’m just here cause—I’m not—Damn it!” Keith spat sitting up to stare at Lance. “If that nutsack-son-of-a-bitch hadn’t taken my bike, I’d be out of here. As soon as I take it back, you’ll never have to see me again. I’ll get out of this shitty place…”

“I’m sorry, _take_ back?” Lance said, putting down his book and standing up. “What do you mean, Keith?” He said, as he walked towards the couch.

“I’ll get out of here and take it back, it’s mine. Then I’m gone. You don’t have to worry about it.”

“Oh, but I do. You’re not _taking_ anything back.” Lance said, looking Keith in the eyes, no right in front of him. “You owe that man money and he took your stuff because you skipped on your rent. You gotta pay him if you want that bike back.”

“I didn’t skip on anything, you don’t know what you’re talking about. And he had no right to take my stuff,” Keith replied. “And how am I supposed to pay him back if I can’t look for a job, huh?”

“You’ll get better first, then get a job. That’s how. Until then you just try to focus on detoxing and getting sober, that’s already hard enough.”

“I was.”

Lance didn’t understand. “You were?” He had to ask.

“I didn’t wanna go through _this_ ,” he said gesturing with his arms. Lance kept staring, confused. “It never works. _You_ never work, it’s always… Worse.”

“Me? What? I’m not following.”

“Nevermind. Just keep in mind, I’ll pay you back too. Every penny, you hear me? Then I’m out of here.”

“Out? And then what? Back to shooting up your arms whatever it was that you used?” Lance said, gesturing towards the bruises on Keith’s arms. Keith flinched. _Good_ , he thought. “What the hell? Do you actually want to get sober, to stop using? Tell, me, cause if we’re both losing our time here, then let’s break this up and get back to our lives.” He finished the sentence expecting a deep, uncomfortable silence to ensue right after, but instead Keith yelled:

“You have no idea what you are talking about! Who do you think you are, to just blurt all that shit out on my face, as if you know me? You’re just some guy!”

“Yeah, I am all that and maybe I shouldn’t be bothering with you, but you didn’t answer my question,” Lance fought back. “Do you wanna get sober or not?”

Lance finally got the silence he expected.

At first it was dense and he felt anxious, expecting for a reply, but it kept going. _Did I cross a line_ , he thought, second guessing himself. He didn’t want to push Keith further away from getting better, but he wanted to know, he wanted him to say what he wanted to do. That was important. Anitta always said that it’s the person’s choice, it’s a self-diagnosed disease, after all. The silence stretched. Lance got from second guessing himself to wondering if it would be too anticlimactic to go back to the kitchen and bring his coffee. But then Keith finally said something:

“I—” it was all he said at first. Lance watched as he looked down at his own feet. “I do,” Keith answered.

“That’s great,” Lance said, back to his cheery voice.

“But I don’t want your pity,” Keith kept going, this time facing Lance. “I’m not here because I need your help, just… Just because I have nowhere else to be and I gotta get back my stuff. Don’t pity me. I’m sick of it. Just…” Keith looked down on himself again.

“Just…?”

“When did I change clothes?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, you slept in those…” Lance laughed awkwardly. “Don’t you remember? C’mon, I gave those to you last night, to sleep… Anyway, I made coffee. Are you hungry?”

Lance watched as Keith stared suspiciously at the Peanuts t-shirt he was wearing.

“Maybe… Sure…”

“Okay. What do you wanna eat? Lance asked, glad they changed the subject.

“Nothing, just coffee.”

“What? No. You can’t just drink coffee, you gotta put something solid in your stomach. C’mon, what do you want? Pancakes? Eggs?” Lance said, walking backwards to the kitchen while Keith made his slow ascent. It was _really_ slow, but Lance had learned it the hard way that it was better not to help him do that kind of stuff. Which is why last night’s episode was best left unmentioned. “I have apples and bananas, I think. Do you want a fruit cup?”

“A _fruit cup?_ ”

“Yeah. It’s a cup with some fruit in it. In this case apples and bananas.”

“No, thanks. Maybe… toast? If you have bread.”

“Yeah, sure,” Lance said, going for the cabinet door and taking out the bread. “How do you like it?”

“I can make it myself,” Keith growled.

“Alright,” Lance said, letting go of the bread to watch as Keith tested the balance of every piece of furniture in his way, as he grabbed it to steady himself. “You take your time,” Lance added, getting back to his cold coffee and book.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I remember riding a bus one of these days and thinking "Oh, yeah, I should say _this_ on the next notes of High as Hope". As you can all see, I forgot what it was. I'll try to remember for the next one, which I think will come soon! It will be a fun chapter to write, I'm excited about it.


	6. Oh no

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith is finally rid of the numbness in his body, and that gets him excited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so very sorry. I said this chapter would come out quick, but uni life got in the way and I couldn't write it sooner. I hope it's worth the wait.

Keith woke up and had the most weird feeling: he could feel things.

“Oh, no…” he mouthed to himself, his face still on the pillow. Keith could feel the entire length of his legs, and every inch of it was pain. His arms were the same. His shoulders, back, chest, stomach, everything seemed to be thumping, drumming with some kind of new, unfelt before, pain. He heard his stomach growl, but it wasn’t hunger, no. It was  _ runforit _ . “Damn it,” he said between teeth as he tried to get out of bed, fighting with the covers. He was glad the door was open and that he could pull his shorts down in time. When he was done only the pain remained. “Damn,” he said as he stepped outside the bathroom. Keith was barefoot and the floor was cold, and something caught under his feet, but when he looked, it was just a little grain of dirt. He shrugged it and went for the bed, but instead of lying down again, he just sat. It was past noon already, Lance would be home soon from the morning shift and he didn’t feel like sleeping anymore. However, he didn’t feel like doing anything else either. So he sat there, staring at nothing, thinking, feeling how his own breathing made his back and chest hurt. It was strange, it was as if he didn’t have those body parts yesterday before he went to bed. Well, he had them, they even hurt sometimes, but not like  _ this _ . And on top of that, his shorts were getting progressively tighter. “What the hell?!” He said, looking down. Boy scouts could camp under there. “Who? Why?” Keith said, looking around as if the furniture could explain it. He stared at it longer. He wasn’t exactly horny, just incredibly hard and nothing made sense.

Keith had a full on erection for no apparent reason when the doorknob moved.

“Hey, man!” Lance said, entering the house. Keith only had the time to jump awkwardly and turn around to lie down, facing the bed. “Did you just wake up?”

“Y–yeah… I was just about to make the bed,” Keith lied, lying face down, his voice muffled.  _ Why _ , he cried inside with his dick still rock hard under his clothes and now touching the bed, rubbing on stuff… The whole thing was making him feel even more down there.

“I can see…” Lance said as he dropped his keys on a bowl beside the TV. “Do you need help?”

“No!” Keith yelled back. The simple movement of his jaw against the bed made things move. Just a little. But also just enough to send shivers down his spine. It was like his nerves had finally woken up from hibernation, especially the ones in his underpants.

“Really, cause it sure looks like you do…” Lance said. Keith couldn’t see him, and he dared not move his head to do so. But something moved under Keith again, this time more violently, pulling him sideways. “Get up, I’m gonna take these sheets to do the laundry”, he heard Lance say as he forced the sheets from under him. Keith wanted to scream something, tell him to stop, but it all happened very fast.

The movement of the bedding being pulled from under him, plus how incredibly sensitive he was, was all it took to finish the job. Keith could only close his eyes and let it out. At this point there was nothing else he could do, so Keith bit his own lip, afraid he would let any sound out as he felt his underwear and shorts getting wet.

“Dude, are you okay?” Lance asked. Keith stood there, facing down, waiting for the world to end. “If you’re feeling sick I can help you to the bathroom…” Keith stayed silent. If he stood up, there would be a pretty conspicuous and embarrassing wet mark on his shorts that would need some explaining he wasn’t exactly willing to give. Death was the easier way, so he would wait for it. “Hey, Keith? Say something…” Lance insisted, and sat down. Keith felt the bed move again under him, and by the time Lance put his hand on his back to say “C’mon…” his shorts were tight again.

“Damn it!” He yelled. That was a mistake. There was only so much motion he could take, and apparently that was it. Keith turned around and jumped again, one hand covering his accident, and the other getting the sheets from Lance’s hands.

“What the hell?”

Keith didn’t say anything, he just ran to the bathroom with wrinkled bed sheets wrapped around his waist. But it all had costed a lot of  _ movement _ , and with a hand on top of it all, it was like his genitals were meeting an old friend. “Fu—” Keith wanted to curse as his back arched, but before he could, he came again. He was just outside the bathroom door this time.

“Man, are you having a seizure?” Lance asked.

“I’m—I’m gonna take a shower!” Was all Keith could say as he entered the bathroom and closed the door. As soon as he was alone, he dropped the sheets and stared at the mess. There was a dark red stain by the crotch of his red shorts. He stared at it listening to his own heartbeat thumping in his ears. Keith took of his clothes, careful not to  _ shuffle  _ too much around the dangerous parts, then stared at his own junk and said, “What the hell?”

“Can you please tell me what’s going on?” Lance asked from outside.

“I’m fine!” Keith yelled. “Go do your laundry.”

“I would, but you took the sheets. Which brings the question: why are you showering with my sheets?”

“It’s—” Keith began. He grabbed the sheets from the floor, got the door slightly open and handed them to Lance. “There.”

“That doesn’t really answer my question…” Keith slammed the door. “Alright, but after I do the laundry you gotta help me clean the apartment,” he heard Lance say before leaving.

After that, showering proved to be a challenge. Cleaning himself with all that sensitivity going on was a weird rollercoaster of pain and unwanted orgasms. Finally, after twenty minutes of running the soap over himself as if his body was a minefield, Keith decided it was safe to dry off and get out. Lance was probably at the laundry room, downstairs, so it was safe to come and go and get dressed before he came back.

Keith ate some bread and drank a cup of coffee. It was almost  _ 4pm _ when Lance returned with a basket of freshly dried clothes around his arms.

“Feeling better?”

“Sure…” Keith told him.

“Cool. Grab a broom.”

Keith swept the floors while Lance dusted. There was a computer hooked up to the TV, blasting Celine Dion. Lance was singing  _ All By Myself _ dramatically as he ran an old rag over the kitchen counter. Keith made sure he was sweeping far from Lance the entire time. Mostly because he was afraid something would happen in his pants again, but also a little because Lance was a terrible singer. It took him forever to clean anything because everytime he moved in a certain way, his shorts would get a little tighter, and then he had to stop and cool down. At least Lance didn’t ask any questions about it. 

“ _ If I kiss you like this… And if you whisper like that… _ ” Lance was singing by the end of the afternoon. “ _ It was lost long ago but it's all coming back to me… _ ” Keith was leaning by the kitchen counter then, already done with the sweeping, suffering with a headache.

“How many things still have to come back to her before this song  _ ends? _ ” Keith blurted out, a hand on his temple.

“Hey!” Lance interrupted himself. “Excuse me, but miss Celine Dion is an American hero.”

“I’m pretty sure she’s Canadian.”

“Keith, please, don’t be ridiculous.”

“Can you turn it off?” Keith asked.

Lance stared at him with a frown for a second, then turned off the music. He had a rag over his shoulder and a kind look on his face when he said:

“Are you feeling alright?”

“Yeah. I’m just… Headache. Just that, I’m fine,” Keith explained, trying not to make more of it than it was. 

“Mmkay… We should eat something. It’s almost six and last time I ate was at lunch, I think… You?” Lance asked, going for the kitchen.

“I had coffee and toast while you were doing laundry.”

“I figured. You gotta eat better. Recovering is tough enough as it is…”

“Yeah, yeah…” Keith answered, sitting down on one of the tall stools by the kitchen isle. He rested his pounding head on his hands as he watched Lance open counters and get pans. “It’s just… Today is… It’s a lot worse than the pain I’ve had on the last few weeks…”

“Well, that’s to be expected.” Lance had his back to him.

“What do you mean?”

“Your prescription is over. I haven’t been giving you your medicine for like, three days…” Lance turned around. “You didn’t… notice?”

“I—” Keith was ready to say that  _ of course he noticed _ , but then he stopped himself.  _ I’ve been taking medicine? _ He couldn’t recall. He racked his brains for a single blurry memory of a pill or a shot or anything, but the ones that showed up in his mind did not involve Lance. “Was it like, painkillers?” He asked. That would add up, since his senses were apparently dulled.

“No, not that. It was something the doctors in the hospital prescribed. To ease the withdrawal effects..”

“Those were  _ eased _ withdrawal effects?”

“Yeah… But now it’s done. He said it wasn’t good to take that for too long, plus we all know I’m not swimming in a pool of money,” Lance laughed. “But hey, it’s your fourth day completely sober!”

“Great,” Keith sighed. 

“I think you should expect to feel a little sensitive for the next few days. Things can get a little intense when detoxing.”

“Thanks for the heads up,” Keith said. The pain in his head preventing him to sound as ironic as he wanted to. “It feels like this will never end.”

“But it will, you just gotta be patient.”

“Well, I’m not. While I’m here  _ recovering _ that nutsack has my bike and all my stuff. For all I know he might have sold everything by now,” Keith spat. The effort made his head throb.

“As soon as you’re feeling better we can go talk to him, make some sort of deal,” Lance offered, as peeled a carrot. 

“And when will that happen? Next year? Cause it feels like I’m gonna be like this forever,” Keith said, now pissed. The passion of it was making him dizzy and he felt like he would fall of his seat, so he stood up to add, “this is why I wanted to do this myself. I was doing fine with my addiction before you came along.”

“Oh yeah, this again. Please, do tell,” Lance tossed him a plate of carrot sticks. “I’m always very interested to hear the tale of how you came from  _ fine _ to swimming dead on a pile of trash.”

“I don’t have to tell you anything.”

“You’re right. But you gotta eat.” Lance stared. When Keith took a carrot stick, he turned back again.

Keith munched carrots in silence. He didn’t even like them, but it was a good excuse  not to talk, and as a bonus it would shut Lance up as well. But not for long.

“You know… I’ve been there too,” Lance said, Keith munched. “I’ve had to detox, I’ve been through this same painful hell as you. Well, not exactly the same, I just drank, so things usually had a different color. But it took forever to get better, and I didn’t even do it just once. I relapsed twice before I went to AA…” Lance’s voice was getting quieter. Keith stopped chewing. “So I know a little about being afraid of this… Withdrawal is scary. It’s literally our body telling us to drink and use and fuck up again. The point is, you’re not, so things will turn out fine, alright?” When Lance was done Keith stared at his back in silence as he moved from here to there, chopping, cooking.

“I’m not afraid,” Keith finally said. He felt like he had to add something to that, but the words wouldn’t come to him. So he stuffed his mouth with carrots.

“Sure,” Lance said, putting down whatever was in his hands and going around the counter, towards Keith.

Before he could understand what Lance was up to, he was already trapped in it. Lance was hugging him, very tight, very close. In a matter of seconds Keith felt the clothes around his crotch getting tighter as Lance said something. Keith wanted to tell him to go away, but his mouth was full of carrots, so he struggled. Which was a bad a idea. When his mouth was finally free, it was too late. All he managed to say was:

“Oh no.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I've decided to change de name of the fic. I mean, it just makes more sense to me that it's called High on Hope. I hope that doesn't bother anyone.  
> Anyway, what did you guys think of this chapter? I had so much fun writing it, I'm curious to know...


	7. Birthday boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance is excited about his upcoming birthday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry about the long absence. I'll elaborately apologize at the end notes. I hope this is still enjoyable.

“I love my birthday! It’s literally the day to celebrate the fact that I was born, which is something everyone should do.”

“You mean celebrate their own birthdays with that same attitude?” Vieve asked him with a smile. She was working the register while Lance juggled the coffee maker. It was the end of the day and their shift, but customers would seldom mind that detail, so there was still a small line of caffeine deprived teenagers waiting for their order.

“Yeah,” Lance said, “that too.” He was steaming milk, very focused. He didn’t want to steam his own hand _again_ being so close to his birthday. He wanted everything to go along perfectly. “Will you be there? I’d love for you to come…”

“Oh, of course. It’s tomorrow, right? July, 28th?”

“Wow, yeah, you remembered!” He remarked, surprised. He had been working there for only about a year now, and could recall mentioning his birthday only once. It was nice to know she remembered it, so Lance went on passionately: “The party is gonna be on my apartment. You don’t need to bring anything. Unless, you know, you wanna drink something more fun than iced tea,” Lance warned.

“Iced tea is fine,” the girl answered, then added, “that’ll be five dollars. Thank you, have a nice day!” She turned from the register to Lance, her sand blond hair tied on a ponytail that cascaded down her back in soft curls twirled with the motion, “What’s on the menu?” She asked. Lance eyed Genevieve for two seconds. She wasn’t really tall and had a chubby figure, with a round face, rosy cheeks, and a gentle, soft smile that would always discourage any rudeness from customers.

“Ow!” Lance flinched as he almost spilled hot milk. He let out a sigh of relief when he realized he didn’t and then answered: “I was thinking of making some guacamole, you know, it’s good, everyone likes it, and, most importantly, cheap enough so I can feed it to eight to ten people,” he told her, then let out a small, awkward laugh.

“I like it. I can bring chips.”

“Oh no, don’t worry about it, I’ve got it all covered.”

“Are you sure? Haven’t you been feeding two lately?”

“You make it sound like I am pregnant,” Lance laughed as he proceeded to make the cappuccino. “But yes, I have been feeding two, but it’s okay. I’ve decided to have this party nevertheless. I can afford it.” _I think_ , he added to himself. “If I couldn’t, I would just not do it, you know?”

“I see. Sounds good, you can count me in. Now, is that coffee coming out or not?” Vieve asked. Lance batted an eye at her meaning to talk back, but when he realized the only costumer left was the teenage girl who had asked for a hot cappuccino to go when it was eighty degrees outside at night, he admitted defeat and focused on the task at hand.

“Coming right up,” he said, putting the lid on the cup when it was done. It was already past closing time, so after the girl left, Lance literally jumped over the counter to go shut the door, turning the sign that hung from it so that now the _open_ faced inwards. “Woof, finally. Now let’s clean this up before Jen shows up to micromanage our every move, shall we?”

Genevieve agreed.

“You are not taking the bus on my watch,” Lance told Vieve when they finally got out. It was almost midnight. “Come with me to the parking lot, I’ll give you a ride. I owe you for all those shifts you covered for me.”

“I was not gonna hold you to that, but I’m also not gonna pass on a ride,” the girl said. They walked to the car, and soon Lance and his workmate were buckled up and on their way. “So, how’s your roommate, by the way? Is he excited for your party as well?” Vieve asked.

Lance let the question linger. Focusing on the road was a good excuse not to answer right away.

“I haven’t mentioned it yet,” he confessed. It was a very trivial matter in truth, but it felt like a confession to him. Vieve must have picked up on that.

“It’s that hard, huh… But hey, it’s your house, you shouldn’t be the one feeling uncomfortable for having a party,” she said.

“Wow, you catch on quick… Yeah, I kinda feel like that. I know it’s my house, but at the same time I don’t wanna drive him further away, you know?”

“I understand… But maybe he’s gonna be excited too. Your own excitement is kind of contagious. I’ve never seen a grown man so passionate about his own birthday,” Vieve said, chuckling a bit. Lance smiled.

“Yeah… Yeah, I guess you’re right. There’s no reason for me to worry so much about this…” Lance said, hoping that saying it out loud would help him believe it. They spent the rest of the way in silence. “Goodbye! See ya tomorrow! At eight! Don’t forget!” Lance said as he dropped Vieve off in front of her apartment. After he was sure she got in, he drove away to his own.

 

“Hey,” Lance said as he got home. Keith wasn’t exactly in sight, but he just wanted to announce he had arrived. “Keith?” He didn’t get an answer. Lance saw that the fold out couch was still folded out, with the sheets and pillows in a mess all over it, but its current occupant was nowhere near it. He wouldn’t be in Lance’s bedroom, he never went there, so that left out only the bathroom and the kitchen. Lance sighed. “Dude?” He asked again, taking his shoes off by the doorstep.

Lance went for the kitchen where he found Keith perched on a tall bench, staring at a laptop placed on the isle. His back was arched, he had one hand on his forehead keeping his hair away from his face, as the other navigated the touchpad, the eyes were fixed, reflecting the white light. The whole image read to Lance like a big _leave me alone_. Keith was already difficult to talk to in normal circumstances, with a computer screen glued to his face, serving as the perfect excuse to pretend not to listen, he seemed that much more inaccessible.

Keith was now like a mouse, Lance thought. A mouse that you find it’s been living in your cabinets for a while now. Most people would see him as unwelcome and put a trap, but you have a heart, and it’s too cute, you don’t wanna kill it… So you give up that packet of crackers it’s been eating and then, before you know it there are no more crackers, but the little guy’s gotta eat, so you leave a piece of toast behind one day, then another, and so on. You two never meet, but you get some weird feeling of reassurance whenever you see just the trail of crumbles. It’s alive and eating. It seems like you cohabitate well.

That was what having Keith on the house felt like. At first Lance thought this impression he had was granted, since it was kinda new for Keith to be there, on a stranger’s house, feeling sick all the time. But then they had some moments, they talked, and it felt like progress, even though Lance didn’t know exactly why he felt he needed progress of any kind. However, at the same time it felt like they always took a step back, and what was a nice conversation one morning would turn into a sullen, grunty silence in the afternoon. Then there was that incident a few days back that added a good new coat of awkwardness and made everything worse… Lance would only call it _the hug_ , and not to Keith’s face because any mention of it would set him off. One time Keith disappeared for hours just because he said “I _came_ home the other night and…” Keith was embarrassed enough, and the whole thing had not done any favors to their testy relationship.

Trying cohabitate with Keith felt like having terrible luck on a board game: you move forward one square, but then go back two.

“Keith,” Lance began. They were in the same room now, it should be harder for Keith to ignore him, Lance hoped. “How are you doing?” Approaching him felt like a physical exercise. It seemed the wall of silence between the two of them was crossing the line from the metaphor to reality quickly, because sometimes Lance felt that if he got too close to Keith he was bound to slam his face on an invisible block of unhappiness. “Are you hungry?” Lance asked. He had to remind himself that he was at his own home to cross the room and go for the fridge. Keith kept silent. Lance put some leftover pizza on the microwave and turned it on. As soon as he saw the numbers slowly decreasing on the screen the regretted the entire enterprise. Now he had a reminder of how time dragged when he was with his roommate. Since it was gonna take six hours for that microwave minute to pass, Lance forced himself to talk, “So… How’s job hunting?” Keith didn’t move his eyes from the screen. “I can talk to my manager if you want. Maybe there’s something for you there, if you’d like…” That also didn’t catch Keith’s attention. Lance peered at the microwave, but there were still thirty good seconds left. There was no point in putting it off any longer, so he cut to the chase. “Hey, so, tomorrow is like, my birthday,” he began, “so a few people are going to come over by, like, eight. Just some friends. Cool?” Keith seemed unwavered.

Until he said, “Cool,” without taking his eyes from the screen

“Really?” Lance was surprised.

“It’s your place.”

“Yeah, I know,” Lance said. Then added, “I’m not just warning you, though. I’m inviting you, too.”

“Oh,” Keith raised his face from the screen.

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Because… It’s gonna be fun.”

“Fun?”

“Yeah. Don’t you have fun at parties?”

“Not much of a party guy.”

“Really?” Lance said, sceptical. It wasn’t common to meet an addict that didn't like to party. “How about your birthday?”

“What about it?”

“Don’t you like them?”

“What’s there to like?”

“I don’t know. There’s cake, friends, presents. At least when you are a kid. Didn’t you like them when you were a kid?”

“Never had anything like that.”

“Oh, dude, that’s… wrong,” was all Lance could manage to say.

“Why do _you_ like them?” Keith said. The question startled Lance. Not the actual question per se, but just the fact that Keith would express any curiosity.

“Well I… I think it’s fun, reminds me of a simpler time of my life, and that makes me… happy,” Lance said the last word slowly, carefully, but he didn’t know why exactly. “And I like to share that with the people I like.”

“And me.”

“And you,” Lance agreed.

“I’ll make myself scarce tomorrow, you don’t have to worry,” Keith said. The words stung on Lance’s ears like hot needles. He had to shake his head a little before he could muster a reply.

“No, dude, that’s not what I mean!” Lance blurted out, seeing what he did wrong right away. “I meant…I meant that I like you too, that I want you here. That’s what I meant.”

“Hm,” Keith said, squinting and turning back to face the computer screen. It was all he had to offer, apparently.

Lance sighed and turned around. The microwave had beeped and he must have missed it. The pizza was cold again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so, so sorry about leaving this story on hold for so long. It was the end of the term for me here, and then I got involved in some stuff and I just couldn't get my head around writing. But now it's winter break and Lance's b-day is a date I was excited to explore from the moment that I started this fanfic, so, to apologize for the long wait and to celebrate our sweet boy being born, I'm also gonna post chapter 8 tomorrow. I hope you all can forgive me for the time away. I'll try to keep the chapters coming more frequently. The story is reaching an important point, one that I was eager to write for a long time, so besides feeling in debt, I'm also excited.  
> I hope you guys can still enjoy this ♥


	8. Motorcycle heist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith is determined to take his bike back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a post-it on my laptop that says "trust your guts when it comes to writing!!!" for me to look at every time I doubt myself. I looked at it a lot for this one.

Keith had a cup of coffee in one hand and the other committed to the laptop’s refresh button. He stared at the screen listlessly, his coffee cold and forgotten. Every time he refreshed the craigslist page his heart skipped a beat.

“Hey, so how are you doing with the online job hunting?” Lance asked. He was on the background doing something.

“It’s great. I am getting paid right now,” Keith spat.

“Ooookay…”

Keith took a deep breath and moved his face away from the screen. The small effort made him dizzy.

“This isn’t working, I gotta go out there and look for something,” Keith explained. He meant to say _I’m sorry_.

“Yeah, maybe you’re right. I can’t really drive you or lend you my car during the week though,” Lance said.

“I know. If I had my bike this would be a lot easier,” he sighed. Keith still had a shaky forefinger hovering the refresh key on Lance’s computer. “I’m so tired of this,” he said to himself. Lately his mind was becoming a terrible place to be. It felt like entering the house of a hardcore hoarder, filled of junk and piled up crap, and nothing he found there seemed to belong to him.  But the worse about entering that place was trying to find the door again, a way out, because the moment he stepped in, all exits disappeared. Riding his bike had always been a nice way to get away, sometimes quite literally, and every new minute far from it would make him a little more anxious. Keith clicked the button. The page refreshed, but nothing had changed. “Damn,” he said under his breath, even though he didn’t know exactly what he was expecting. He was fighting a lost battle with his expectations, because not finding what he was looking for there was nerve wracking, but finding it would wrack him just as much.

“Keith, are you… alright?” He heard Lance say. It was so fucking tiring to spend the whole day having to answer those kinds of questions. Of course he wasn’t _alright_ , but he could not say that, if he did Lance would try to _fix_ things and make him _open up_ about _whatever_ . This is why living with other people didn’t work for Keith, having someone around, poking their nose in his shit. People weren’t exactly his favorite thing. “It’s almost six and I only saw you drinking coffee. You are finishing the third pot. Did you hear? _Pot_ , not _cup._ ” Lance insisted. “ Did you eat anything all day?”

“Yeah, I’ve eaten,” Keith lied. His stomach growled.

“I can fix you some guac before people start arriving, if you want. We also have some pizza left, although I think it’s like, five days old by now,” Lance laughed, “maybe I should celebrate the pizza’s anniversary too.”

Keith sighed again, feeling lightheaded.

“No, thanks. I’ll eat later…” he said, looking up from the screen. Lance was in front of him wearing an apron, chopping stuff. Keith got a look around and realized there was a pile of tomatoes, red onions, limes and avocados beside him. There was also a big case of yogurt. “What’s this all for…”

“I told you, I’m making guacamole. And you’ll eat some, cause no matter how much black coffee you drink, you are looking whiter and whiter by the day...” Lance said. He sounded cheery, Keith noticed. He had always seemed a little _too much_ , but today it felt somewhat different.

“Are you gonna make that to last for the whole month?” Keith asked, sipping his coffee.

“Very funny,” Lance answered. “Besides, it would turn brown. This is something that you gotta eat right after it’s done, which is why I’m just gonna make some for you now. Then I gotta clean the bathroom…”

Keith only frowned at that, then got back to staring at the computer. He continued his refresh routine, just clicking and expecting. Worrying helped him stay outside the hoarder’s house.

“Here, eat,” Lance said, sliding a bowl of something at his direction and then tossing him a bag of chips. Keith caught it just before it hit his face, then Lance went for the bathroom and out of sight.

Keith put the bag aside and got back to refreshing. The page changed and he jumped.

“Son of a bitch!” Keith yelled.

“I’m a good cook, I know…” Lance’s voice came from the bathroom.

“He’s selling it! I can’t believe, that motherfucker is selling my bike!” Keith shouted, now standing up. He had to restrain himself not to punch the computer.

Lance came rushing back into the kitchen.

“What’s going on?”

“That dirtbag son of a bitch motherfucker is selling my bike!” Keith told him, now gritting his teeth in anger. Lance approached the computer.

“ _Nineteen eighty-three, Suzuki Intruder, perfect condition_ ,” he read outloud. “Is this your bike? That _Adballs_ guy, your landlord? Is this him?”

“Yeah!”

“How are you so sure, you can’t tell by the seller’s name. It could be just the same bike, right?” Lance said, looking at the screen.

“It’s mine, alright? That stupid son of a bitch doesn’t even know a thing about my bike! It is _perfect_ , but it’s not in _perfect condition_ , it’s old, it’s got a scratch there,” Keith pointed at the screen.

“I only see pixels. Are you sure?” Lance said.

“I know it, this is my bike, alright. I gotta go, I gotta do something,” Keith felt his heart thumping. He raised his shaking hands to his head as he paced through the kitchen. “I gotta go there, I gotta take it back before he sells it.”

“And how do you plan to do that?”

“I—I don’t know!” Keith snapped. He felt cold.

“Alright, alright. Listen, let’s do this: we go there, explain the situation to him, I can talk, there’s no reason he won’t be reasonable about this. You can offer to buy it back—maybe we say I want it, he doesn’t have to know it’s you if it’s indeed your bike.”

“It is my bike!”

“Okay, okay…” Lance added quickly. “What do you say?”

Keith was biting his lip. He wanted to feel the pain and try to concentrate, but he was shaking too much to even bite right. There was no way out of this, he thought. Lance was right, he had to go there, so he nodded.

They got down to the garage and into the car and then towards his old apartment. All the while Keith felt like each of his heartbeats was gunfire, shooting inside him, blasting his ears and piercing a hole in his chest. Lance was talking all the way to the 25th street, but Keith registered only the sound of the car stopping when they arrived. When he jumped to open the door and leave, Lance held him by the wrist.

“You stay here. If he sees you this won’t get any easier, alright?” Lance said. Keith stared at his dark blue eyes in silence. “I’ll go talk to him, you wait. It’s not gonna be long,” he said, slowly letting go of Keith’s wrist, then left the car.

The place was just a couple of buildings ahead and Keith could see as Lance got in. He fidgeted as he waited, looking away from the entrance, and then staring back at it, expecting something to happen. Wherever his hands touched, they left a wet stain of sweat behind. It wasn’t going to work. He wouldn’t leave there with his bike like this. There was nothing Lance could do. He needed to _leave_ with it. Keith was the one who had to fix this, so he opened the door and left. He strode down the sidewalk towards his old building and entered it recklessly. There was no one there to see him, so he went for the stairs, jumping two steps at a time, pulling himself up by the banisters. Quickly he saw his old door, but instead of going right for it, he knocked on the one in front of it. After a nervous while, it opened.

“Oh, Keith, dear! How are you?” Mrs. Jackson greeted. She pulled him for a hug that Keith didn’t quite reciprocate.

“I’m—I’m fine, Mrs. Jackson. I was just—”

“Oh, thank God. I was worried sick about you! I haven’t seen you in so long, dear, I was worried. You shouldn’t make an old woman worry so much. Have you been taking your medicine? I saw the delivery girl come once and—”

“It’s all good, Mrs. Jackson. Re—really,” he reassured her, then added, before she could interrupt again, “I need my key, do you still have it? That spare key I gave you once?”

“Oh,” the woman said. Keith rubbed his hands against each other, “did you lose your key, dear?”

“Yeah, yeah, sort of. Do you still have it?” He pressed.

“Oh sure,” she said. Keith bit his lip, still shaking. “Why don’t you come in and have a cup of tea while I look for it?”

“I can’t, Mrs. Jackson, it’s kind of an emergency, can you hurry, I’m…”

“Oh, sorry, let me see…” the old woman said, turning her back to Keith. “Oh, what do you know, it’s on the hook! My old head, I thought I’d lost it… but here it is…” Mrs. Jackson said as she turned back, handing him a lonely key. Keith took it and turned away, going for his door. “Please, come back for some tea after you’re done, dear. I could really use the company…” he heard the woman say as he finally managed to open his door.

“Fuck!” Keith said when he was inside. He closed the door behind him and stared at the small room that used to make up his entire home. The old mattress wasn’t there anymore, neither was the rack with his clothes, although he saw a few clothing hangers spreaded on the floor. At the corner, close to the bathroom where he used to keep his table, there was a cardboard box. Keith opened it. “What the fuck, did that son of a bitch sell all my shit?” He cursed as he discovered the box filled with what seemed like the only remainder of his belongings: his old, tattered leather jacket, one pair of jeans and a few t-shirts. Keith took the jacket and went for the bathroom. He crouched by the sink and reached behind it, trying to pull up one of the tiles, when he finally managed to, something wrapped in toilet paper fell. Keith took it and made for the door as he donned his jacket. He found Mrs. Jackson still standing by her door.

“Are you leaving already, dear?”

“Yeah,” he told her, making his way down as fast as he could. She said something, but Keith didn’t listen.

Keith got to the first floor and then further down to the garage, his heart in fury, his hands cold and sweaty, shaking the entire time. Only a few tenants had cars and the space wasn’t really occupied, so as soon as he entered, he saw her, waiting for him in the farthest corner, away from the other cars. The first thing he noticed when he got closer was that it wasn’t dusty, like he’d expected, then he saw the gas gauge. It had half a tank.

“That son of a bitch has been riding it!” Keith said, clenching his fists and kicking someone’s tire. “But better than empty,” he added, putting his toilet-paper-packet in the inside pocket of his jacket, then hopping up on the motorcycle. “Seems like I gotta start you without the keys, huh,” he said, “just like old times…” then soon after the engine was stirring.

Keith made his way out of the building through the garage door as if he still lived there and in seconds he was on the street, feeling the wind blowing his hair. He felt like a thousand pound weight had been lifted from his shoulders. His heart had eased, too, and the cold breeze washing over him was very soothing. He could finally get away again.

So Keith rode away, enjoying the sweet taste of freedom only someone who has no place to be could enjoy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys enjoyed it. Sometimes I wonder if writing the way I do works. I leave so much left unsaid. Do people get what I mean with the scenes I write and the emotions I describe? I wish there was a way for me to know... Anyway, thanks for reading up until here ♥


	9. Broken things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance tries to figure out his feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was really fun to write. I love self analysis.

“Hi… I’m Lance, I’m an alcoholic…” The four people sitting on fold out chairs on the _9 am_ Sunday meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous of the Sunnyside Rec Center said hi back, but Lance didn’t carry on right away. He let the words linger. In the uncomfortable silence that ensued, he met Anitta’s eyes and she nodded encouragingly. But that was all Lance could say, _Hi, I’m Lance, I’m an alcoholic_ . That was it. He didn’t have any other words, and he only had those because they were canned goods, they came ready to serve. What he _wanted_ to say, however, was nothing like that. It was foreign, it felt strange, it was new. In other words, it was _hard._ “This is kinda hard,” he tried, just to break the silence, “I don’t know what to say or… How to begin saying it. I usually,” he chuckled, “I usually come up here to brag, you know? I count my sober days, and say something about how hard it’s been, but how I carry on, how things work… I have fun, even.” Lance looked down and let out a small, awkward laugh. “This is not my usual meeting, but you know how it goes. It’s hard, it’s difficult, but we handle it. But I guess that as of today… Well, to put it more accurately, as of _yesterday_ , I am _not_ handling it.”

“At least not well,” Lance added quickly. He laughed, then continued, “I—hm, well, I don’t wanna—why is it so hard, damn it,” he muttered, pressing his eyes shut. His chest was drumming. “Okay. I have this, uh, _tradition,_ – well, it’s not really a tradition, I’ve just done it once, but you know, turning it into a tradition was the plan, – of always celebrating my own birthday. Yeah, it doesn’t sound like a big deal. Actually it doesn’t even sound like a _deal_ , it’s so common, everyone does it. But I didn’t do it, and therein lies the _big_ of my _deal_ , you know.” He paused, let out a small sigh and went on, “for years I didn’t celebrate my birthday at all, I couldn’t even remember it. I guess that’s what happens when you are born in the middle of the summer, likes to party and, you know, have a problem. So, from eighteen to twenty five I had no birthdays, no party, no real friends, no family, just a neverending buzz going on that turned most of those years into a big blur in my memory… When I look back I just… There’s not much to remember, and what I can recall is better forgotten… But the bottom line is those years sucked and things only changed when I did. And that was last year, when I came here, got help, got a life, and suddenly I could remember what I had eaten for breakfast. More importantly, I was having breakfast! So, last year, when I turned twenty six, I had done things, I had gotten sober, I was recovering from withdrawal, I didn’t have many friends and wasn’t really in touch with my folks, but I celebrated. Well, I wasn’t planning to, but Nitta here dragged me down to a coffee place, ordered me a piece of cake, and, I kid you not, pulled out a little candle from inside her purse, stuck it to my slice of red velvet, lit it, and she—she sang…” He choked. Lance suddenly realized his eyes were burning, and he had to interrupt himself to look the other way and rub his sleeve on them. His blue shirt got stained with wet spots. “She sang me happy birthday,” he smiled and Anitta smiled back at him. “At first look you’d think that was a really sad scene, or maybe embarrassing, but I think that is one of my fondest memories… And after that I got a job, I got better, and I decided that from that year on I would always celebrate my birthday somehow, just gather the people close to me, cook something or go out to eat, so I could always remember it. Just like that day on my twenty sixth birthday. It would be my new tradition,” Lance smiled, then sighed.

“Yesterday was July 28th, I was turning twenty seven, and I had planned something,” he went on. “Nothing big, but bigger than last year. I had a few friends coming, I was gonna welcome them on my own home, cook something myself, it was a big improvement on the one-on-one-coffee-shop-red-velvet-slice I had last year – no offense Nitta,” he added. Anitta laughed, which he took as a sign to carry on. “Point being, I had not only reasons to celebrate, I had more people to do it with! I was very excited to do it, too. But somehow, as my guests started arriving at 8pm, I wasn’t in my apartment to welcome them.” Lance felt his face flush and his heart beat fast. He clenched his fists to say, between teeth: “Instead, I was in my car, running around a neighborhood I barely know, worried sick, looking for someone that just didn’t—” Lance stopped himself. He wanted to curse, yet he felt sorry, and still, at the same time, he desperately wanted to feel nothing, to just be alright. And with rage and pity and artificial apathy merged together in a chimera of emotions, Lance couldn’t find a word to finish his sentence. “I—I don’t know what happened. I know he just left. Left me… There...” he said, and seeing some confused faces, he explained, “I’m sponsoring this guy, one of us, really needs help, you know? And he has been leaving with me for a while, almost a month by now, and things always were a little rocky. He’s difficult to approach, but I thought I could get to him, make a difference… But he… Well, he doesn’t seem too interested, now that I look back. We just can’t get along, I think. He needed a place to stay and I offered him mine, so he stayed, we shared an apartment, some meals, but I guess that just makes us roommates, not friends, right? We were only roommates. But I didn’t know that yesterday, so when he needed my help I… I did what I could to help. But he never asked for my help, so, I don’t know… He never really asks… So I chose to help him, every time, it’s always my choice…” Lance realized he had stopped talking and was now thinking out loud, so he took a deep breath and tried to get back to the point, even though he had no idea where he was going. But he knew he had to go. “Thing is, I was busy helping this guy by the time my guests were at my doorstep, knocking and getting no reply. I was away from home, missing my own birthday party, because I decided to help this person that didn’t even wish me a happy birthday. What the hell, he never even wished me good morning, what did I expect? All of this to say that I broke my ‘tradition’ already. It’s as if I can see it, shattered on the floor in a thousand broken pieces... ” Lance looked down at the redwood floor and sighed.

“In the end I got home two hours late for my own party after checking hospitals and police stations and making my way home through the filthiest streets and alleys so I could check as many piles of trash as I could. The only thing I found when I got there was an empty apartment, the phone I’d left – by then overflowing with missed calls and messages, – and a bowl of untouched, brown guacamole. There was nothing to celebrate by then.” Lance sighed and stepped away from the stand, but before he could go around it and back to his seat, his mouth opened and suddenly he was saying: “I don’t understand how I feel about all this.” With the words out, he felt as if they materialized something he didn’t know existed. “I feel like I should be angry at him, like, if I saw him I would want to pick up the nearest thing and throw it at him for ruining my plans, my day. But that’s not it. Because at the same time I kinda get it, I get him, I know he doesn’t _have_ to care about me or anything I do, and I know, on some level, why he is like that. I’ve been there. It’s hard to care about anything else when you don’t even care about yourself. But because I know that now, I also know that it’s no excuse to treat anyone like that… And still all I feel is… Well, all I wish I felt, I guess, is pity? But pity alone doesn’t feel like this, it doesn’t cover it, because… Because pity is a feeling we spare to others, I mean, I could be feeling sorry for myself, but that’s not… At least I think it’s not exactly _it_ . But I don’t understand… The whole thing is…” Lance sighed and shook his head, hoping that the motion would put the right gear in place and the cogs of his brain would finally work right to solve this. “Yesterday when I went to bed… I couldn’t sleep right away, so I kept thinking, trying to piece myself together, and it’s funny… I remembered something. Another birthday story. I was twelve, I think, and it was like, a week or so from my birthday. And it was back when the Harry Potter craze was at its highest, you know? I was a big little fan by twelve already,  _The Order of the Phoenix_ had just been published by then. So, one day, my mom got home with bags and left them on the table, they were mostly grocery bags, so I rushed to check them. You know kids, always looking for treats and stuff, but in one of them I found a package, and I took it out. The silver wrapping paper had small, blue stars in it, and it had a pretty blue bow as well. I just stared at it, and in the next second my mom showed up again and said ‘Don’t open that now, it’s a surprise!’ She was smiling happily and sounding really proud of herself, and quickly I understood that was my birthday gift, so I put it down. It had the very familiar rectangular shape of a book, though, so, little Lancey, sharp as the _brightest witch of her age_ , pieced it together and said: ‘It’s Harry Potter!’” Lance had to look down again. His chest felt tight, as if he was being held by a cruel giant. “I was so happy, that was the perfect gift, you know. It really was…” he said. His eyes swelling up with tears, Lance added: “But when I looked up at my mom the look on her face was… Different… It was… So sad. She didn’t say anything, she only looked… Disappointed? But not at me! Because she wanted to surprise me on my birthday, and I ruined it, you know? But how could a little kid be at fault for just being curious? And for guessing right? There was nothing she could do but feel like she had failed to keep the secret, I guess. But I knew I had ruined something. After that I didn’t really care about the book, I just wanted to do something to make her feel good again… Because that face… That face she’d made it was… She was _heartbroken_.” The word came out of Lance’s mouth as the tears rolled down his eyes. He chuckled awkwardly before he could add: “I guess… I guess that’s why I remembered this, then… My mom’s expectations were probably lying on the floor in front of her, shattered in a thousand pieces. That’s me, too. That’s how I feel. I’m—I’m heartbroken.”

Lance rubbed his face on his sleeves again and let out a deep, long breath. He felt somewhat lighter, so he looked up to thank his little audience, when his eyes locked on the figure in black, tattered leather, standing just one step outside the open door. Their eyes met for just one second before Keith left.

“I’m sorry for the long monologue. Thanks for letting me share.” Lance sighed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys enjoyed this. I think there is something really intimate and entertaining about someone trying to figure out themselves, don't you?


End file.
